


The Barer Bones

by RK Ten Hundred (Shokubenii)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of Violence, Pacifist Route, Post-Canon, RK1000 - Freeform, Romance, cosmoscorpse, rk1k - Freeform, the angst brick cometh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-19 21:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17009541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shokubenii/pseuds/RK%20Ten%20Hundred
Summary: Hell on Earth began in December of 2042.And Markus was the first soul to be devoured by its flames.[Hiatus]





	1. Writing on the Wall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosmoscorpse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmoscorpse/gifts).



 

 

 

Red.

It was such an ugly color. It represented everything he stood to stop—everything he did his best to see less of, be it spilled on the ground, or covering his hands or the hands of those he held dear. Yet, it was the color of the season; it littered some neighborhood houses, brightly lit and strung along roofs, and donned by portly men giving goodies to children—coiling around the candy canes in a spiral of sugar.

Uglier still when it became a circular, glaring source of concern on a pale temple.

Such an ugly color.

So, so ugly.  
   
Markus hated it.  
   
He moved to sit behind the distressed android on the metal steps, wrapping his arms around the other’s shoulders and layering soft kisses along whatever expanse of skin he could physically reach. His scanners roved over the RK800 in his arms. Stress levels were up at sixty when he found him—dropping to a steady forty five after his arrival.

Better, but not good enough.

“Connor?” he hedged, not liking how still the other remained. It wasn’t new, this unmoving silence. And much like the sordid cardinal this behavior, too, was seasonal. Always during the holidays. After a full cycle.  After—.

The silence stretched between them, and Markus studied the back of the other’s head. Nothing changed over the four years he’d known the ex-hunter. Chestnut locks were never out of place, slicked back and shined to perfection with the little lock that fell over his forehead.

Markus pressed his mouth against the mole at Connor’s nape, relaxing some when the RK800’s hand came up to cover his own.

“I’m—,” Connor started. “Not alright.”

Markus remained quiet, his silent urge for the other to continue.

“I know that it’s irrational to keep thinking that she’d be back. That I’d have to lock myself away because I’m too weak to stop her.”

Markus moved to sit on the step beside the brunette, taking both the pale hands in his markedly darker ones and bringing them to his lips, keeping an eye on the other’s stress readings. It hadn’t gone down, but neither did it spike. Mismatched eyes never strayed from the other’s face.

“Remember when I told you,” Connor mused, gaze flickered down at their hands, thumb wriggling out to run softly over Markus’ knuckles. “That I always completed my mission?”

The darker android quietly hummed his affirmative.

“But somehow I failed that one,” the other whispered. “And even as a fresh deviant, I’d failed at that, too. No idea what to do, acting on the only logical thing that I could, fighting for a side that shouldn’t have accepted me. And now, here we are, still fighting an uphill battle that never would have—.”

Markus’ lips were on his own, skin around his lips withdrawing. The action made the polymer skin over Connor’s mouth receded in response, giving into the interface. Markus put everything into the kiss, the endless flow of love that he had for Connor, eating up the doubt and the darker things that poured out from the other android.

The images never changed, he knew. It was like digging into his own memory banks—the destruction of Jericho, the march, _Amanda…_

Then there were the newer memories—current cases by what he was seeing. Mangled android bodies were flung about, some pinned to walls and others found in dumpers.

Markus knew of the unsolved cases, and more of them were piling up. Connor didn’t divulge much—not that he was particularly allowed to. But none of them were turning up anything new or helpful. Markus warned their people about staying out late into the night after their work hours. To guard themselves and be vigilant.

They’d lost a few of their brothers and sisters, but the bodies found were those that had opted out of staying within the infamous Tin City.

Markus pulled back a bit, ending the connection and dotting kisses over the pale face before his, then moving back to the cool knuckles in his grasp.

“You do realize you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, don’t you,” he coaxed the slowly calming ex-hunter. “Who better than to watch my back and be my support, hm?”

Connor cracked a small smile, brown eyes finally lifting to meet Markus’. The RK200 offered a lopsided quirk of his own lips.

“North probably,” the detective hummed.

“She’d use me for a body shield.”

“A sexy body shield.”

**Stress Levels: 20%**

Not the best but very good. He awarded his lover with a chuckle and another, searing kiss. “I love you.”

Connor’s smile grew. “Poor decision making.”

_I love you, too._

The now blue LED shifted into a cyclic yellow. The detective frowned, blinking at Markus and already getting to his feet.

“Hank, I assume.” Markus also stood, following Connor’s purposeful steps toward the entrance of their personal warehouse. He could see the setting of the other’s shoulders, surety masking his previous bout of self-doubt. This was one of the easier days, Markus noted absently. And he hoped, rA9 forbid, another day like it arose, it would be just as easy.

“Got it in one.”

They were already outside in the crisp Detroit air, the wharf caked in snow. The tin city of New Jericho was a seaside haven for all deviants from near and far, trailers and warehouses utilized for different activities, though mostly for shelter. Christmas lights ran from metal roof to metal roof and music blared from speakers around the makeshift compound.

Androids grinned and waved at them as they passed, a happy cluster of people just enjoying the free life. It was almost the perfect picture of what Markus and his friends fought for not so long ago.

They came to a stop at the barbed wire fence that served as the entrance to the unused docks. Markus cast a glance at the still-yellow LED but leaned in to capture his lover’s lips.

“Be careful out there, Tiger,” he murmured. Connor drew him back in, lanky arm looping around his waist.

Brown  bore into green and blue before Connor stole one last kiss. “It’s late,” he sighed. “No need to wait up, alright?”

Markus nodded, finally able to step back. “Merry Christmas in advance, then.”

The ex-hunter offered a serene smile. “Merry Christmas, Markus.”

The deviant leader’s smile fell as soon as Connor’s back was turned, scowling at the spiking number on his HUD.

**Stress levels: 65%^**

 

 

 

 

Morning dawned a steel gray, snow a quiet white shower over the city of Detroit. Many of the androids observed the human tradition of ‘sleeping,’ on Christmas Eve just to wake to a morning of gift giving. Not that there were many things an android would need of in terms of special gifting, but it was done regardless. Many things were handmade, such as clothing, and sometimes small sculptures or even books were exchanged under the large tree they’d ‘appropriated’ (Connor’s way with words that looped seamlessly though potential libel was thing to behold, really) ever since the sun bled through the building clouds.

“Merry Christmas!”

Markus blinked, smiling at the AX400 that hurried over to place a small box in his hand. He quietly thanked her and continued on his way. By the time he got to the warehouse he had in mind, he was already peeking around specially wrapped boxes towering just above his head. Mismatched eyes were bright, secretly excited to see what laid within the shrouded packages.

North had been the one to throw the smallest box on top of the pile, sticking out her tongue at him in retaliation when he asked her to be a gentleman and help.

“Don’t be lazy,” North teased, turning to go back to where Kara, Luther and Alice sat around, opening gifts of their own.

Markus simply rolled his eyes and resumed his journey. Eventually he began to whistle some tuneless song, indulging in the activity when his hands were much too far from the piano. Today was a calm day, and while Connor hadn’t come home yet, Markus felt he could do something else to enjoy his free time—the reason he was going toward the dwarfed warehouse closer to the back of the metal neighborhood he called home.

This particular building in New Jericho was the one he called his own. It wasn’t as big as the others, being erected by his fellow androids in appreciation for his work as their voice. But it was something that he treasured it beyond measure. No, it wasn’t his sleeping quarters; he and Connor shared another just for them. This one was for his art. All of his supplies laid within, with canvases everywhere stained with vibrant pictures. Neither of them had a subject of great importance, but they were beautiful nonetheless.

Connor adored his art—not because Markus did them. Well, not entirely. It was because he’d truly come to appreciate art in all its forms and truly felt that Markus spoke through paint even better than he used his words.

And Markus thought himself pretty damned eloquent.

He then made it a point to paint more often, even if they were quick pastels or even watercolor. Oils, however, he spared for the special things. And the product of his self-sworn vow littered the warehouse.

Eventually, they all wouldn’t be able to fit, however—Josh often suggested selling them. A thought to consider soon. Maybe.

But the back of the metal building was what Markus loved most about it. It was partitioned into a separate room that he did his work in when he didn’t want to be disturbed—a private studio one needed to ask permission to get into. It was where he kept the oil-based gift he’d been working on for a while.

Which explained the black look that stole across his features when he stepped through the metal doorway.

Not much would seem amiss to the naked eye, but the slight shift of painting supplies and backward facing chair was more than enough to set the red flag in his head aflutter.

The RK200 was careful to keep his whistling going, gently setting the stack of presents beside the doorway. Quiet steps guided him along the path of faint blue that seeped into the dried flecks of paint on the floor.

Ahead was the white curtain drawn across the rather large masterpiece. The blue dots disappeared behind the covering.

Markus raked the curtain to the side, whistling beheaded at the jagged and gaping maw that sat in the middle of the painting. He swore, taking in the irreparable damage. Whatever was used had butchered the most important parts of the picture—it completely erased the subject matter and—.

Who would even…?

Rich blue caught his attention and he looked through the gap to the ridged wall beyond.

 

 

 

_**AM I NOT GOOD ENOUGH?** _

His frown pulled harder at his thick eyebrows, more questions popping up on his HUD than answers. Markus, dutifully ignoring the tingle that seized his spine, moved to get a closer look. Not even two paces forward, something heavy caught him underfoot. His other leg, left behind, launched forward to steady himself before he went careening into the wall.

He hissed, anger bleeding into annoyed fury.

He straightened, eyes already searching the ground for the offending obstruction. But what he saw froze his systems solid.

“Oh no,” Markus breathed.

No.

_No, no, no, no…_

The body was sprawled across the concrete floor, shirt rucked up and pump torn out. Thirium pooled around him, soaking into the gray suit and staining the white dress shirt.

Immediately, Markus was on his knees, hands hovering over—.

“Connor,” Markus choked out, hauling him up off the floor and into his lap. His arm flopped heavily, grotesquely free of Markus’ hold.

It was Connor.

It was Connor, and his LED was--.

Connor’s LED was empty, and would not flicker light, no matter how gently Markus brushed his fingers over it, steadfastly ignoring the terrible wound in Connor’s head. Dismissing the pistol on the ground, just out of reach.

The sleeve of the suit jacket had been unbuttoned and pushed up—the forearm was split lengthwise with a deep gash, an ugly dark blue core to the white wound. Thirium slid out and dribbled down, pooling in the palm.  

A noise, loud and terrible, filled the studio, and after a moment he realized that the sound was him. The dam had broken and he sobbed openly, rocking with the body in his arms.

Mismatched eyes found themselves looking up and at the wall again, caught by the violent blue.

_AM I NOT GOOD ENOUGH?_  
  
His attention snapped back to Connor, chest heaving, mind racing.  
  
The skin on his hand peeled back, pawing at the one closest to himself. He needed Connor to know that he was beyond good enough. The best, the—.  
  
_He couldn’t tell him._  
  
Connor—he would not accept an interface with him.  
  
Markus whimpered, tears free-falling over his hands, onto Connor’s blank face. He pushed the prompt at him, distressed at the failing connection. He shoved the errors off his HUD and tried again.  
  
**Error—.**  
  
Again.  
  
**Error—.**  
  
_\--GOOD ENOUGH?_  
  
Again.  
  
_AM I NOT—._

_Again._

_\--ENOUGH?_  
  
Connor was empty.  
  
_AM—._  
  
So, so empty.  
  
**Error—.**  
  
Markus bent over him and wept.

  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to hell. 
> 
> Introducing: The Barer Bones! Gift to my glorious feeder, cosmoscorpse who actually sat with me and made this little ball of food for ourselves. But you know, writing is a thing and since it was originally their idea, it's a good idea to have a fellow writer see their things come to reality and not have to do black magic to get it onto a computer screen <3
> 
> BTW CHECK OUT THEIR STUFF. Even if you're not part of the fandoms they write for, you will never be disappointed. This is a writer of epic proportions and I will never stop preaching about it. Honestly, I think I'm gonna yell about it every chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Admittedly, the idea of shooting himself from the underside of his jaw was a constant fleeting thought. However, he never dreamed of tearing open his own arm and ripping out his pump. That one was a first.  
  
No, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen a dead version of himself—the Connor that held Hank hostage owned that spot. And even then, it didn’t feel as surreal. Not as—fascinating. There was no one to mourn his death at the tower. He was no great loss to society.  
  
But he did see himself in many worst-case scenarios. This, he thought, wasn’t one of the many.  
  
It was morbidly fascinating, attending his own funeral.  
  
Never could he imagine someone would weep themselves hoarse over his loss of life.  
  
“Holy shit,” Hank’s rough grumble raked through the silence. The middle aged officer’s steps slowed as he neared the blue-spattered scene. “You really need to stop testing your respawn time, asshole.”  
  
“This one has me beat by a few hours well, Lieutenant,” Connor quipped softly, unable to resist the bad joke between them. Having seen Connor rise from the dead so many times, it was a wonder the human detective never truly lost his mind.  
  
A wonder Connor hadn’t lost his own from the sheer death toll of the one over…  
  
And over.  
  
_And over._  
  
Repeatedly, and _never staying—._  
  
Connor tore his eyes away from the long-dead corpse and returned his attention to the man still curled around the body.  
  
He squatted behind Markus, gently prying at the iron grip knotted into the thirium soaked dress shirt. He murmured reassurances to him, hushed tones barely sinking into the distraught man’s audio receptors.  
  
“You have to let him go, Markus,” he all but whispered. Markus flinched at his words, hunching over the RK800 and tightening his grip. Connor frowned.  “That’s not me; I’m right here.”  
  
“And over there,” Hank scoffed, old shoes scuffing the concrete as he rounded the scene. “Here, too.”  
  
“Hank,” Connor warned quietly, meeting the detective’s eyes for a brief moment, not liking the wall of red text running across his HUD from Markus’ current state. He brought a hand up to gently wipe saline tears away. The other’s eyes fluttered, half lidded under the ministrations.  
  
Hank looked down at the silent android and frowned. “You should get him away from here as soon as possible.”  
  
Connor grimaced, LED a solid yellow. “I’m not sure I can leave him in our room and come back to help clean up.”  
  
“I doubt he’d let you.”  
  
He looked down at his lover and raised his free hand. The skin on his fingers crawled back and he touched his lover’s temple, forcing a…not a true standby, but a dormant mode to help lower the other’s stress levels. Markus’s grip on the limp impostor was gone and Connor was finally able to drag him away. Able to draw him close and tuck the shaven head under his chin.  
  
Silence blanketed the studio, Hank squatting to take a closer look at the cadaver.  
  
Connor’s eyes also took the time to rove over the RK800, attempting to reconstruct the scene from where he sat. Eventually he gave up, the last of his scanning requiring him to move—far from the best course of action.  
  
“Am I not good enough,” he heard Hank mumble. From his peripheral, he saw the detective get back to his feet and move away. “What do you think, Connor?”  
  
“I think you’re great, Hank,” Connor found himself saying automatically, itching to dig into his pocket for his coin.  
  
“Of course, I’m fucking fantastic,” the detective groused, snapping his fingers impatiently. “Pay attention.”  
  
Brown eyes look up, following the man’s gaze to the drying words on the metal wall.  
  
_AM I NOT GOOD ENOUGH?_  
  
Connor’s eyes widened under cinched eyebrows, attention yanked back down to the man in his arms.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“…Yeah,” Hank sighed. “A huge stinkin’ pile.”  
  
“We need to get rid of it.”  
  
“ _We_ ain’t need to do shit,” Hank glared. “ _You_ need to get Markus back to your place and stay there. He needs you.”  
  
“Hank—.”  
  
“I’m not going to take it back to the station if that’s what you’re bitchin’ about.”  
  
Connor had the decency to look sheepish.  
  
“Oh, clearly I’m stupid,” Hank scoffed. “I know how to hide a body, dumbass. Yeah, it’s a trip hiding two in twenty four hours, but it’s doable.”  
  
“You’ll have a hard time fitting it into the trunk with the next one,” the android’s lips quirked.  
  
“My back’s cryin’ already,” Hank muttered, bending to pick up the limp body.  
  
“Thanks, Hank.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
Connor chuckled softly.  
  
  
  
  
He woke to fingers tracing his LED. They traveled the circular path jauntily, sometimes abandoning it to card through his hair. The hand paused for a moment, and Connor chose then to open his eyes, immediately locking onto wet mismatched ones.  
  
He reached up and took the trembling hand to his, gaze never leaving the other’s, and laid soft kisses to Markus’ knuckles.  
  
“Morning.”  
  
Markus didn’t respond, eerily still save for the green and blue eyes frantically searching his face. Connor peeled back the skin on his hand, gently prodding for an interface. But he was too late; Markus tore his gaze and hand away, getting out of bed.  
  
_‘Morning.’_ Came the deceptively steady voice through their shared link.  
  
Connor sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, watching Markus shuffle about. The other had already changed out of the dark gray track suit from the day before and settled for a simple tank and sweatpants.  
  
He was awake for quite some time, then.  
  
Connor’s LED flickered an idle yellow; there wasn’t much one could say to their still grieving lover the morning after one’s own death. And hedging around an apology didn’t seem to fit either. Possible solutions, neither of sound reasoning, flashed through his processors.  
  
Markus was standing stock still then, jacket hanging from stiff fingers and head hung low.  
  
The detective rose to his feet and padded over, pressing against the broad back and wrapping his arms around the tapered waist. Connor buried his nose between Markus’ shoulder blades, quiet and waiting. He silently watched his lover’s stress levels, the steady rise leveling out at the contact.  
  
He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. The sun was already close to hanging in the middle of the sky then. And finally, Markus turned around in the loose hold. He seized Connor’s wrists in an ironclad grip. His gaze was intense—searching.  
  
_‘Could you ever—? Would you…?’_  
  
“No,” Connor whispered aloud, with all of the surety he could muster. “No, of course not.”  
  
Markus nodded slowly, breaking their gaze.  
  
“I couldn’t do it, honestly,” Connor continued softly. “Who’s going to look after you, hm?”  
  
_‘That’s implying I’d live that much longer once you’re gone.’_  
  
“Don’t talk like that,” Connor frowned, trying to draw Markus’ eyes back to him. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. I’ve seen you move through hell with your head held high.”  
  
Mismatched eyes snapped back up to his, and it was Connor’s turn to look away from such open sorrow. _‘I didn’t know what hell was until I found you… Found you just_ laying _there—.’_  
  
“It wasn’t me, Markus,” Connor soothed, LED flickering at the small, sad smile that stole across his boyfriend’s features.  
  
_‘What if it had been,'_ came the challenge. _'What if the last time I spoke to you was when you felt you weren’t—.’_ Markus moved backward, stopped only by Connor’s hand darting out to capture his wrist.  
  
_‘I felt like I failed you again,'_ he continued. _'Like I didn't do enough--didn't do it_ right. _Like I put that bullet between your eyes again and didn't know until it was too late.'_  
  
Connor gave the captured wrist a gentle squeeze. He knew Markus regretted it. Regretted shooting him at the church that night. And he made no effort to forget it, either. Most thought being kissed on the forehead was one of the more tender things in the book of love.  
  
But for them, for Markus, it was a sign of remorse—a memorial of something best left buried.  
  
“You weren’t the first to do it,” Connor blurted, grimacing when Markus flinched. “But at least you were the last.”  
  
He watched Markus swallow. Hard. And he immediately regretted opening his mouth.  
  
_‘How many?’_ The question, even through their mental link, wavered. _‘How many times did you—?’_  
  
“Die?”  
  
Markus stepped back. Connor let him.  
  
“More than I care to keep track of,” he confessed. He shrugged after a beat. “But I wasn’t more than a machine at the time. It doesn’t—.”  
  
The rest of the words were pinned at the back of his throat by the look leveled at him.  
  
“Markus…?”  
  
Markus worked his jaw, brows knitted together and he squeezed his eyes shut but unable to stop a lone tear from leaking out. He bowed his head then, forehead settling against Connor’s, skin receding.  
  
Grief surged through the connection; pain washed over Connor in a wave so strong, it looped between the two. Connor watched through eyes that weren’t his, roving over his mangled from—devastation in the only place Markus found peace outside of Connor’s arms.  
  
He felt the scream rend his throat plates, thirium pump in overdrive as he doubled over in the pool of blue blood. It beat against the walls, the desperate wail reaching out for—.  
  
He wept. He gently cradled the broken body of his lover in his arms.  
  
Oh, so gently was his precious one tucked under his chin as he rocked them to the silent song of agony. He clutched him close—so close that maybe… Maybe an interface would bleed life back into him.  
  
And for the first time he prayed.    
  
If there be any god out there that heard even the desperate prayer of a lowly android, just—.  
  
Just give him back.  
  
Bring him _home._  
  
Bestow one last chance to tell him that he was never a failure—that he was more than good enough. That he never had to question his worth. That he was—.  
  
_AM I—?_  
  
—perfect. Never should he have to paint the world in his own blood to—.  
  
That he—.  
  
  
_**Warning: Stress Levels Critical**_  
_**Contact Cyberlife Immediately**_  
_**Warning—.**_  
  
  
Connor struggled out of the interface with a gasp, reeling. His chest heaved as he forcibly blinked Markus back into focus—shoved away the distorted horror that wasn’t his to live through.  
  
Vivid images collided with reality, overlaying the grief-stricken face of his still-weeping lover. They fizzled and faded into one another, riddled with static and scan lines.  
  
Connor felt a thumb brush the skin under his left eye, and a heavy tear rushed to take its place after. They were on their knees together, clutching at one another. Markus buried his face in Connor’s neck, and inhaled.  
  
“Don’t,” Markus said aloud against the pale skin, voice a mess of interference and emotion. “Don’t you _ever_ say that you don’t matter, Connor.”  
  
“Markus,” Connor started. “I—.”  
  
“You will always matter. You will never not be good enough.”  
  
Connor wrapped his arms around Markus, small smile still watery from the feedback loop. “Thank you, Markus.”  
  
Connor worked to get himself under control, LED easing from red to yellow to send a quick message to Hank. He probably wouldn't be able to show up to continue the investigation in person for a while; working from New Jericho would have to suffice for the time being. Discretion was paramount, now.

There was absolutely no way he could tell Markus the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Markus uses his wireless speech because he can't trust his own voice. 
> 
> Poor baby.
> 
> But he's so effing beautiful when he's in pain. I can't help it!
> 
> Dedicated to the amazing creator of this lovely idea, cosmoscorpse. I will preach about their writing in every single one of these notes because that kind of skill is blessing and going to continue blessing this fandom. Y'all go show some love.
> 
> Comments? Concerns? CANDY?!

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to hell. 
> 
> Introducing: The Barer Bones! Gift to my glorious feeder, cosmoscorpse who actually sat with me and made this little ball of food for ourselves. But you know, writing is a thing and since it was originally their idea, it's a good idea to have a fellow writer see their things come to reality and not have to do black magic to get it onto a computer screen <3
> 
> BTW CHECK OUT THEIR STUFF. Even if you're not part of the fandoms they write for, you will never be disappointed. This is a writer of epic proportions and I will never stop preaching about it. Honestly, I think I'm gonna yell about it every chapter.


End file.
